


Better

by Skyzuki



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Arishok duel, Blood, Blood Magic, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Major Character Injury, Purple Hawke, aaahhhh im posting so much lately whuttt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 10:03:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13121451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyzuki/pseuds/Skyzuki
Summary: She’s survived so many times before.She can handle herself.Don’t worry, don’t worry.She will always come back to you.-Marian duels the Arishok. Anders frets over her.





	Better

_Breathe, Marian, you’ve fought harder battles than this one._

Kirkwall’s fate is resting on her shoulders. If she dies, they die with her.

She turns to her companions.

Fenris is confident that she will survive, he wouldn’t have suggested one-on-one combat if he didn’t believe in her. She winks at him from across the foyer, his lips quirk up a bit.

Isabela is clearly nervous, though she’s trying valiantly to hide it. She’s standing stock straight, ready to unsheathe a dagger. This fight will determine her survival as much as Marian’s

Aveline is stoic, strong. If the worst happens, if Marian falls, she knows that Aveline will clean up her mess. As usual. They’ll be in good hands, with her.

Anders is a wreck. Very obviously straining himself to stay back, to let her face this on her own. His fingers are toying with a wayward pauldron-feather. He will never forgive himself if she dies. He will blame everyone, until it kills him.

She’s ready, now. She can do this.

_Breathe, breathe, breathe. Don’t fuck up, everyone’s watching._

She allows herself one last glance toward her friends.

_They want you to succeed._

She readies her staff, approaches her enemy. She smirks at him. He does not falter.

_Touchy._

Marian is quick, agile. She weaves through the grand pillars of the foyer, practically casting behind her shoulder.

The Arishok is slow in his movements. All muscle and bulk, his sword is as tall as he is, twice the size of Marian.

 His attacks are less frequent, but twice as damaging.

_Just run and cast. He’s practically dragging his feet._

_*_

The fight seems to drag on forever, neither opponent willing to show a weak spot.

Her companions watch as she summons the elements, relentless and wild. There’s a rare aggression in her eyes, blood and saliva dribbling down her chin.

She’s used her teeth to uncork three health potions, already.

Her head is throbbing, she can hardly see straight.

_My little girl, I’m so proud of you._

 She’s starting to tire.

_Mum, I’ve made such a sodding mess of this town._

When her vision clears, there is a blade in her side.

Her feet are dangling off the ground, her entire midsection is unbearably warm.

Her ears are ringing, she struggles to keep hold of her staff.

The Arishok shakes her off the end of the sword as if she’s a pest. He has the opportunity for a killing blow but he does not take it.

_Blood, Mum, there’s so much blood._

She staggers to her feet, using her staff as a support. Her hand instinctively covers the gaping wound. She looks up, palms red, survival itching in her veins.

_I have to do something, you won’t like it._

She casts a final spell.

Red and blinding, her magic leaves her with a scream. There is power, raw and real and horrifying.

_I know, I promised not to._

She sees red, and then black. She’s moving with no consciousness.

She feels herself hit the ground.

_I’m sorry._

*

Her ears are still ringing when she comes to, barely two minutes later.

The Arishok is dead, his massive body crumpled in on itself.

She’s all but bleeding out on the plush carpet.

She spits out a tooth, vomits up bile and blood.

_I’m sorry, future Viscount. I’m melting all over your fancy rugs._

The Qunari warriors leave the keep, looking miffed but overall unaffected.

Anders is at her side, as soon as the threat of danger is gone. He’s healing her, she can feel the glow of the fade.

“Don’t move, Hawke.” He keeps telling her, even though she doesn’t feel herself moving.

He knits her flesh together just enough to keep her organs in place. He’ll finish the job at the estate, where they can both collapse from exhaustion in peace. He never knows when to quit, even when he’s running on his last dregs on mana.

_I did it, Mum._

She hears Meredith’s shrill voice.

“Is it over?” She asks.

“It’s over.” Aveline answers for her.

_They’re cheering for me, I’m alive._

Anders is still hugging her closer than necessary, holding her head and petting her hair. He knows he’ll have to hand her over to Aveline, he can’t carry her back to the estate.

She wants to reassure him somehow, she squeezes his hand, smiles at him.

_This is nothing, love. I’ll be just fine._

*

She wakes in her bed, propped up against pillows, buried under blankets.

Anders is sitting vigil at her bedside, as she expected.

_He’s not doing a very good job, he’s asleep._

Half slumped over, only his head resting on the mattress.

He snaps up as soon as he feels her shift. His eyes are wet, lips swollen, hair disheveled.

“You look awful.” She croaks, managing a smile and then wincing when the movement of her cheek tugs at a wound there.  

Her breath is beyond stale, and she can only guess as to how long she’s been out.

She feels terribly stiff, wants desperately to stretch out her arms.

_It hurts, everything hurts._

Anders is not a miracle worker. He can heal, but he cannot always take away the pain.

She tries to push herself upright, his hand rushes to her chest, and pushes her back down.

“Don’t try to move, love. Just rest.”

She closes her eyes again.

_Don’t have to tell me twice._

*

When she is coherent enough to hold somewhat of a conversation, Anders informs her of her injuries.

Ten broken ribs, shattered sternum, dislocated shoulder, sprained fingers. Various gashes and scrapes that already scabbed over.

 The most gruesome is the wound on her side, still leaking and raw.

She very nearly died.

She’s been mostly healed. Her whole body still caries a dull ache, and she cannot bend her torso. She can breathe without pain, at least, and sit up on her own.

 

She wants to thank Anders, but feels too stupid to actually say the words.

_This man saves your life- knits you back together- and you just want to say “Thanks”?_

She kisses him, instead. Her breath is still rancid, but she doubts that he’ll care.

He stares into her eyes when they separate. Intense, and almost angry.

“You used blood magic.” He whispers, as if someone will hear.

“Would you rather I died?

“No- of course not. Just understand- “

“I understand, Anders. I didn’t want to.”

He sighs, defeated. Kisses her forehead.

“I’m sorry. The elf never should have even proposed the idea of single combat.”

She grabs his face with both hands, feeling the patchy stubble on his jaw.

“I can handle myself. Look at me, I’m here. I survived.”

He looks so tired.

_You haven’t been taking care of yourself at all, love._

“I know.” There is a sudden crackle in his voice, his eyes wet. “I just worry.”

She kisses the tip of his nose.

“Don’t.”

_As if any sword-wielding warrior could ever tear me away from you._

*

Years later, after everything, he lies awake in their tent.

They are both older, harder, sharper.

In the candlelight, though, he can make out the deep pink patch on her side.

He reaches out to smooth a hand over the rough texture of scar tissue that never quite wanted to heal.

She has new scars, now. But none quite as bad as this one.

_She’s survived so many times before._

_She can handle herself._

_Don’t worry, don’t worry._

_She will always come back to you._


End file.
